XI
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f sex were all, then every trembling handCould make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.But note the unconscionable treachery of fate, That makes us weep, laugh, grunt and groan, and shoutDoleful heroics, pinching gestures forthFrom madness or delight, without regardTo that first, foremost law. Anguishing hourlLast night, we sat beside a pool of pink, Clippered with lilies scudding the bright chromes,Keen to the point of starlight, while a frogBoomed from his very belly odious chords.
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